Stormwielder (The Sword of Light Trilogy Book 1) (8 page)

The creature reared back. Its high-pitched screech forced Eric to his knees, hands against his ears. It felt like shards of glass were driving deep into the recesses of his mind. He closed his eyes and endured.

When it ceased, he threw himself at the fire, gathering up another stick. He turned, slipping in his haste, and braced himself for the worst. His breath came in rapid gasps, adrenaline thumping through his veins.

A few feet away, Alastair and the beast circled each other warily. Alastair’s face was cut and bruised, already beginning to swell. His coat was in tatters and all his weight was on his right leg.

The monster, on the other hand, looked ready to kill. Their attacks had done nothing to pierce its scaly armour. Eric shuddered again as he stared at the long, yellowed teeth, already imagining them tearing at his body. A low growl echoed from its throat, sending shivers down his spine.

Alastair’s sword spun, orange firelight sparkling along the steel edge. It lanced out, tearing through the brutes forearm. The monster roared, its claws slicing at Alastair. The old man danced backwards and they cut thin air. His movements were steady despite his injured leg. The tendons in his neck strained and there was a tightness to his face. It was taking everything he had to stay in the fight. Just one mistake with this beast would be the end of them both.

Snarling, the creature bent its legs and threw itself at Alastair. A rock the size of a man’s head flew from nowhere, smashing into the monsters jaw and knocking it to the ground. Alastair lowered his arm to release the magic and drove forward, sword striking at his foe.

This time the beast was waiting for him. The sword plunged into its arm, but the other was already moving, tearing into the calf of Alastair’s good leg. Ligament and muscle tore from bone, and the metallic tang of human blood sprayed through the night.

Alastair screamed and fell. Somehow, he kept a hold of his sword, tearing it from the creature. Thick black blood ran down its arm, dripping to the ground to mix with Alastair’s. The beast loomed over him, neck outstretched, jaws open to bite through his skull.

Eric could hesitate no longer. He let out a shriek that was half rage, half despair, and threw himself at the giant.

It twisted its head and watched him approach, waiting until he came within reach. With graceful ease it lashed out with its tail, knocking him to the ground and pinning him there. Eric strained to lift the muscled tail from his bruised body, but could not find the strength. Stars flicked across his eyes as it began to crush down. Suddenly he found himself unable to draw breath. The edges of his vision began to go black.

It turned back to Alastair.

“No!” the word was crushed from Eric’s chest.

He felt the familiar power within him stir. For once he did not try to resist. It was their only hope now. He surrendered to it; let its power boil through his blood. Strength flooded his body and his vision cleared. Faint sounds whispered to him on the edge of his hearing.

Above the monster’s growls, the wind whistled with a violent voice. Gales formed above, driving down towards them. They rushed around the campsite, picking up dust, sticks and stones. The firelight began flickered, threatening to die.

The winds gathered around Eric, tearing at his clothes and hair. He closed his eyes, trying to direct it, willing it to obey. He had no idea whether it would work, but it was all he could do. A surge of power rushed from him and the winds roared.

They struck the monster, hurling it from Alastair and pinning it to the ground.

Before the gale could dissipate, Alastair was somehow back on his feet. He bared his teeth, his face stretched tight. Blood dripped from his nose and soaked his leggings. He swayed, a groan escaping him.

It did not stop him. He stumbled to where his foe had fallen, where even now it was struggling to regain its feet. Alastair did not give it the chance. He drove his sword through its chest, straight into its black heart.

Screaming, the monster lurched up and smashed Alastair from his feet. It turned and reeled towards Eric, the sword still sticking from its chest. The creature’s breathe came in a whistling wheeze. Claws reached for him.

Eric scrambled backwards, eyes wide, mouth open in horror. He could not believe it. How could this thing suffer such a mortal wound and survive.

The beast gave a horrible cry, a gurgle rattling from its chest. It cried again, fainter this time. It took another step towards him.

Then it fell, slowly toppling forward and crashing to the ground. A cloud of dust whooshed out around it, blinding him. When he looked again, the creatures glassy eyes stared up at him. But it breathed no more.

Eric sucked in a great, shuddering breath of air.

******************

Gabriel stood at the edge of the desert. Night had fallen less than an hour ago and they could go no further. He stared out into the darkness, impatience gnawing at him. He did not want to stop, not when they were so close.
I won’t let them slip through my fingers again!

We must wait
, the wolf’s voice spoke in the sanctity of his mind.

“Why, beast? Why should we be afraid of the desert creatures?” Gabriel spoke aloud.

Because they will kill you, fool. My master’s magic will not protect you from teeth or claw. It will be safer in the woods tonight. One less night spent wandering the cursed desert.

Gabriel gritted his teeth. “Very well,” he snapped, storming into the trees.

He could see the wolf shadowing him as he looked for a place to camp. He had already grown to hate it; a constant reminder of the deal he had struck. Regret was never far from his thoughts.
What was I thinking?

You needed help. You took it from the only option left to you,
the wolf supplied.

“Stay out of my head! If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it”

The creature lifted its shaggy head and howled. The noise cut through the night, raising goose bumps on his neck. The hoot of an owl and the chirping of crickets vanished.

Gabriel glared at the wolf and drew his sword.

The howling ceased. The black beast lowered its head, teeth bared. Its growl sent a shiver down Gabriel’s spine.

“Just keep quiet, mutt,” he snapped, sheathing his sword.

Gabriel closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. How had his life crumbled so quickly? He tried to picture his parents, his fiancé. Their images floated through his mind and he felt his chest constrict with love and pain. Yet their faces were blurred and indistinct. Then flames burst within his mind, consuming his family once more.

He opened his eyes and smashed his fist into a tree. They had taken everything from him, even his memory, it seemed. He could no longer even grieve – the tears would not come. All he found was his hatred. He could not stand the thought of their freedom. They would be punished, he would see to that.

Perhaps then he would find peace.

Silence settled like a blanket over the night. The fire burned low, leaving nothing but mere embers to light the camp. The shadows it cast were long and haunting. The air reeked of blood, rot and ash. The stars stared down from above, uncaring witnesses to the slaughter of the night.

Sharp stones ground beneath Eric’s knees, tearing into his pants, stabbing at his skin. He didn’t care. He crouched beside Alastair, his trembling fingers searching frantically for a pulse. The old man’s eyes were closed and he did not respond to Eric’s touch. His body lay crumpled on the ground, his clothes soaked with blood.

“No no no no!” Eric whispered.

He could not bring himself to believe the mighty Magicker who had spirited him out of Oaksville could lie dying. An iron fist wrapped around his heart and began to squeeze. His breath could not come fast enough. This couldn’t be happening.

“Come on, Alastair. You can’t do this, you can’t die. You have to live!” he shook him. Tears ran down his face and dripped onto Alastair’s.

It did not take a doctor to see the wounds were beyond any mortal man’s will to live. Alastair’s right leg was a tangled mess; muscles torn from bone, threads of tendons dangling in the dirt. His left foot twisted at an awful angle. The final blow had shattered his ribcage, leaving a deep indentation in his chest. His face was torn and bruised, and a cold sweat beaded his brow. A thin red trickle ran from his mouth.

Eric finally found the vein in his neck and felt a faint pulse. It was already growing fainter, as the life fled from his friend. He would not survive the next few hours, let alone until morning. Even if he did, they were still stranded in this cursed desert, miles from help

He sat back on his haunches, defeated. “Please wake up,’ he begged. Tears ran down his face.

“Don’t cry, Eric,” a voice spoke from the darkness.

Eric’s heart skipped a beat. He leapt to his feet, swinging around to face the new threat. It was almost beyond him to care, but he was determined not to go down without a fight. Pitiful as that might be – his body was shaking from pain and exhaustion. It would take little more than a child to defeat him.

“Don’t be afraid, Eric,” the voice was soft and feminine.

Eric was not about to let his guard down. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

Stones rattled as a young girl stepped forward into the light. Her features were faint, as if glimpsed through a misty veil. All he could see of her face was the violet glow of her eyes. An elegant sky-blue dress wrapped about her slight figure, spotted by the blurred green images of what might have been flowers or leaves. A faint glow seeped from her pale skin. The scent of lilies and roses fluttered on the air, bringing with it images of a summer meadow. Her bare feet carried her closer.

“I am Antonia, Goddess of Plorsea,” she said.

Eric gaped, eyes wide, his mouth unable to form a response. It was not possible. Antonia was a Goddess. This girl could not be older than twelve.

“Ho– how?” he stuttered. His mind was reeling.
This cannot be possible.

“How did I come to be here? How could I be the Goddess? How how how,” Antonia’s tone sounded amused, as though she were holding back laughter. Eric could not make out her expression, but he imagined she was smiling.

The Goddess came closer. “We can ‘how’ all night, Eric. First, though, I need to save the wily old man. Step aside.”

Eric stood, speechless, as she moved past him. Her movements were smooth and graceful, as though she glided over the ground. Only the soft crunch of her footsteps gave her away. The night around them had suddenly lost its terror, touched by the gentle light of the Goddess. It was as though sunrise approached, banishing the evil of the wasteland back to the shadows.

His eyes followed Antonia as she crouched beside Alastair. His heart pounded like a galloping horse, his breath coming in rapid gasps. He still could not believe what his eyes were telling him.

Antonia looked up at him. “Would you stop
staring?
”

Eric’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. His stomach clenched in knots.

“Honestly, you look as though you’ve seen a–,” her eyes widened. She placed a hand over her mouth and groaned. “Oh damnit, I’m so sorry, Eric. Sometimes I forget!”

She snapped her fingers. The mist faded away and the radiance of her skin softened. Her features finally came into focus.

Curls of silky brown hair hung across her face and tumbled down her back. A button nose sat between her violet eyes and there was a faint sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. Strands of hair caught above her left ear, until she shook her head to free it. The wisps of hair fell to the side of her face. Staring into her eyes, Eric was struck by their depth. They spoke of an ancient wisdom held only by the immortal. Her mouth twisted in a wry grin.

Antonia laughed, the sound bubbling like music. “You look more stunned than before. Not what you expected?”

Eric found himself grinning in spite of himself. The tightness in his chest relaxed and he found his voice again. “Not exactly,” he paused, his chest swelling with hope. “Can you really help him?”

“Just watch and see,” she turned away and placed her hands on Alastair’s chest.

Antonia closed her eyes. A slight frown creased her forehead and a shadow passed across her face. She hunched her shoulders, her little fingers digging into the torn cloth of Alastair’s shirt. Blue veins appeared against the creamy skin of her arms.

A faint green light bathed the two of them. Eric felt its warmth on his cheeks, as though he stood before a great fire. The light settled around Alastair, soaking into his skin and wounds.

Eric watched wide eyed, as the muscles of Alastair’s leg reattached themselves to the bone. The angry red of the skin surrounding Alastair’s wounds faded, while colour rapidly returned to his face.

All over Alastair’s body cuts closed and bruises vanish. His broken limbs straightened with sharp cracks. Within minutes the only sign remaining of the battle Alastair had endured were his torn clothes and bloody sword.

Antonia gasped and sat back on her haunches. A trickle of sweat ran down her forehead. The invincible aura had vanished; now the Goddess looked tired and strained. Her hands shook when she stood.

She looked over to Eric. “He’ll sleep for the rest of the night. That should give us some time to talk, Eric.”

His head shot up when she spoke his name, his heart racing with sudden fear. Antonia was the Goddess of Plorsea; was she here to punish him for the disaster he had brought to one of her cities?

Antonia smiled, the weariness falling from her face. “I am not a vengeful person, Eric. But I know you desire redemption, and I would like to offer you that chance,” she paused, her grin turning mischievous. “And I can answer a few of those burning questions dancing around your head.”

“What do you mean by redemption?”

Antonia laughed. “Always so serious. Why don’t we save that for later? Ask your other questions.”

Eric sighed, frustrated. Then he smiled and asked the question that had burned since she first appeared. “Why do you appear as a child?”

Antonia giggled. “Blunt too, aren’t you? Most people take a few hours to gather the courage to ask that.”

“And do you answer them?” Eric felt unusually bold around the young Goddess, as though some spell had been cast to dismiss his usual caution. Her cheerful personality was catching, her smile infectious.

“Of course – people should know the history of those with power. Even their Gods,” she paused, her voice taking on a serious tone. “Five hundred years ago, the three of us were just spirits. We were still the eternal embodiments of magic, but powerless. A few lonely priests recognised us in their rituals, but we were unable to touch the physical realm.”

“There were just two nations then, Lonia and Trola, and they were constantly at war. Death besieged the land. The Magickers cast horrible spells and entire armies were lost in the chaos. It seemed the two nations were destined to wipe one another from existence.”

“Eventually the destruction became so great, the priests of Trola decided to embark on a great gambit – to summon the spirits of magic to physical form. Knowing us to be creatures of balance, they hoped we might bring peace. Joining their powers, they worked a grand magic – one unlike any that had been or has come after. The spell condensed our spirits, allowing us to assume the bodies we still wear today. It was then I chose this appearance.”

“Did the plan work?”

Antonia smiled. “In a way. Darius, my oldest brother, remained in Trola, while Jurrien went east to Lonia. Together they returned the surviving soldiers to their homes. I gathered the refuges, those disillusioned with their home nations, and led them to the wastelands left behind by the war. Together we created Plorsea from the wreckage, to be a buffer between the two nations who had hated each other for so long. The people loved us, for we were gentle and kind, where their rulers had always been hateful and selfish. And the new kings and queens we brought them were loved as well.”

“Yet our summoning also inadvertently created Archon, and the seeds for a fresh conflict that almost destroyed all the good we had created.”

A breeze carried the stench of the dead beast to where they sat. Eric wrinkled his nose, stomach roiling. Antonia must have smelt it too, as she stood and walked over to the corpse. Eric joined her.

“The two of you did well to slay it. Few survive the wrath of such a beast.”

“What are they called? How can they survive in such a wasteland?”

“They are Raptors. And not by my will, I assure you,” she raised a hand.

Light spilt from her hand to bath the beast. Tendrils shot from the ground to wrap around the corpse, small, green and strong. They twisted and turned, growing tighter and thicker as leaves sprouted. The body shook as though it had returned to life, then shoots erupted from its flesh, weaving together with the others to engulf the corpse.

Within minutes, a bush stood where the body had lain. Pink flowers began to bloom. A beautiful azalea plant now stood amidst the stark desert plain.

“There, that’s better.”

Eric sat down, hard. He recognised the significance of what he had witnessed. Antonia had created the bush from nothing. He stared at her, seeing what his ancestors must have seen all that time ago when they followed her to Plorsea.

Yet he could also see the strain on her face. Her skin had paled and she was panting softly. A sheen of sweat beaded her forehead.

“Are you all right?” he asked in concern.

Antonia nodded. “It’s hard to work my magic in this place. The curse that lies over the Wasteland is not one I can break alone. The land itself is ingrained with Archon’s taint; it fights the magic of the Earth. Within a few days the bush will die, as does everything good in this desert.”

“That is why you cannot restore the forest?”

“Alone, I do not have the strength. It is Archon’s last mockery, that
my
nation be cursed with such a place of death,” Antonia’s voice was laced with bitterness.

Silence fell. It seemed war was the incurable blight of the Three Nations. Eric had only heard legends of the Great Wars from the time before the Gods, but all knew the details of Archon’s war. It had been over a century since those dark times, yet mention of his name could still cast a shadow over the brightest of days.

Eric breathed in the sweet scent of the flowers, drawing strength from the plants beauty amidst the wasteland surrounding them. His mind toyed with another question, one he felt Antonia might be able to answer.

“Who is Alastair? What is his purpose?” the words slipped from his mouth in a whisper.

Antonia turned the glow of her violet eyes on him. Her smile faded. “Ah, so we have come to the crux of the night.”

Eric turned his head in confusion. “What?”

“Alastair is a complicated man and his purpose is one of great secrecy. Can you be trusted with such a secret, Eric?” she flicked a strand of hair away from her face.

Eric felt a rush of fear, but it fled before his rising excitement. He owed Alastair his life. The least he could offer in return was his aid in whatever undertaking had driven him through the Wasteland.

Eric stared into the Goddess’ eyes. “I swear by… err, Antonia, that you can trust me,” blood rushed to his head as he spoke. The purple of Antonia’s irises seemed to swirl.

Then his vision cleared and he found the Goddess smiling. “Good, I’ll hold you to it,” she cleared her throat. “I’d better start at the beginning, although you will know parts of the story. Two hundred years ago, my brother Darius vanished. He abandoned Trola and the Three Nations, and no one has heard from him since. He did not care to tell even his siblings where he went, or what he was doing.”

“I hope this isn’t your big secret, because I hate to disappoint you – everyone knows that. And what does it have to do with Alastair?”

Antonia grimaced. “I said I’d start from the beginning, Eric. So try not to interrupt. When Darius left, he at least had the foresight to leave behind a sword infused with his power over the element of Light.”

“Which became the Sword of Light?”